


A Lost Work

by hophophop



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, imagined suicide only, indirect reference to drug use, indirect reference to unspecified trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4631964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/hophophop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“What do you say, Watson, will you help me?” </em><br/>His father would touch down in four hours. She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Her head ached.</p><p>Episode tag for 3x24, "A Controlled Descent."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lost Work

Joan sat listless at the kitchen table in the thin morning light, her coffee gone cold. Sherlock was still sequestered on the roof, and she didn’t have the energy to trudge all the way up just to tell his back that Marcus had emailed. There was no change in Oscar’s status in the ICU or word on whether the DA was filing charges.

If Ty hadn’t taken that job in the Justice Department last year, she’d be at his office now. She’d almost called him a dozen times anyway, desperate for information, advice, any sign pointing the way out of this disaster. The captain told her to hold off, that meddling wouldn’t do anyone any good, but she knew he had other priorities to consider than hers. She trusted him to do his job, and that wasn’t necessarily going to be in Sherlock’s best interests. Whatever those were.

His father would touch down in four hours. She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Her head ached.

When her phone flared awake with a new message, her first instinct was to turn it off. She couldn’t take any more bad news. Chagrin prevailed, and she tapped the screen despite not recognizing the number. It was necessary to stay open to any interaction, no matter how seemingly banal. The text read “Call now to cash in on this amazing opportunity: A lost work by Diego Rivera!!!”

She blinked in surprise. Kitty hadn’t contacted her since she left three months ago. Sherlock made the occasional cryptic remark that let her know he’d heard from her, and his lack of anxiety about it told her Kitty was all right. It had been at the back of her mind to reach out now, let Kitty know…something, but she hadn’t gotten around to it. Coward. Seemed she wouldn’t have to.

The phone only rang once before Kitty picked up. “Watson! Is this a good time? I can—”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s a bit of a lull at the moment.” She took a breath. “So, I guess you heard…?”

“That Sherlock bollocksed everything up? After what he said to me before— I know, I know there’s mitigating circumstances, but goddammit, Watson, what the hell was he thinking?”

Kitty’s anger and hurt hit Joan like a shock of cold water, painful and invigorating. For the first time since he called from the heroin den the thick shroud of dread dragging on her neck lifted a bit, and she felt the stir of the same anger inside. She didn’t want to wrestle with that feeling just yet but leaned into it a little and sat up straighter in her chair.

“How…?”

“I check in with the station logs, see what you’re up to. I’ve been learning some things from Everyone. It’s good practice for any diligent hacktivist.”

“Is that what you’re doing these days?”

“Among other things…You know what you both taught me: let no skill go unwasted. Speaking of which, I can’t exactly come over to help out with Clyde, but if there’s anything… You know, right? I’ve got tools and access. I can make certain details disappear. Just say the word.”

“He’d never want that, Kitty. He’d never want you to put yourself at risk for him.”

“He bloody well doesn’t get a say in the matter, does he? Gave up that right when he— And anyway, I’m not asking him, I’m asking you.”

Joan sighed impatiently. Part of her wanted to abdicate all responsibility, let cyberanarchy run wild while she buried her head under the covers and slept for a week. She feared Sherlock’s self-loathing that would condemn him to seek any punishment for his transgressions, and she feared her own reckless urgency to solve this no matter what lines were crossed. The penalty for that mistake could be far harsher than a few hours in a holding cell and an awkward apology. “That’s not… Please don’t, Kitty.” Under her breath she added shamefully, “Not yet.”

Neither spoke for a moment. Joan could hear Kitty breathe softly through the earpiece, with faint sounds of city traffic in the background. No doubt Sherlock would be able to tell which city it was from the engines he could identify by their RPMs.

“You know,” Kitty cleared her throat. “You know, Watson, you can tell me things. Or, or write and send them, if you don’t want to talk. I’m still going to meetings. I have a counselor. I’m stronger now, and I’m not alone.”

“I’m not alone.” The retort was a reflex, and she winced at the tell. Careless.

The silence stretched a bit, and then Joan could hear the patient smile in Kitty’s voice because of all the times she’d replied with that same expression herself, with varying degrees of sincerity: to families in waiting rooms, to sober clients, to detective clients. To Karen Lloyd, minutes before she was murdered in an elevator.

“I said _I’m_ not alone, and I’m better than I’ve been in a long, long time, dodgy friends notwithstanding. I want to help, if I can. That’s all.” Kitty sighed. “I’m not just talking about the fucking mess Sherlock’s got himself into.” Her voice broke on his name, but she continued on, steady.

“He never said anything to me, never gave me a file with your history; I don’t imagine there’s any record, not if MI6 was involved, as I suspect. But I can observe and deduce as well as the next consulting detective, and I can recognize a fellow survivor. I also know what happened after I left. And I can damn well recognize someone too stubborn for her own good.” Joan couldn’t help the slight lift at the corner of her mouth. It didn’t last. “I had people who helped me out of the dead end I got stuck in. Good people.”

Joan closed her eyes. The phone shook a little against her ear.

“All I’m saying is, you have people too. You have me. And I think you need me.”

The bright space in her chest where Kitty’s anger had kindled the flame of her own eased the tight repression of emotion that held her together when things got worse after Alfredo was found. _I’m so angry at him_ , Joan thought. _And so afraid of what might happen to him. And what will happen to me, to us, after._

“Watson, I just keep flipping between horrible black worry and the overwhelming desire to bash him with his damn singlestick, and I can’t help thinking you must be feeling that too.”

“Yes,” Joan said, her voice rough. “You’re right, I can’t—“ she stopped, needing to be precise. She _could_ get through this alone. Part of her would survive, anyway. But grasping onto some ideal of self-sufficiency wasn’t the point. As was all too painfully, ironically obvious with the misery brooding five floors above her. How many times had she said much the same to him? And this past year, however awkwardly, how often had he tried to say it to her? Neither of them could pull it off, not by themselves.

“Yes,” she repeated. “I do want your help.” Upstairs she heard the bathroom door bang shut and the faint shriek of the tub’s ancient plumbing. Her heart jumped from relief that he’d roused himself. And that she’d thought to remove all the razor blades from the bathroom the night he came home.

“Right, then,” Kitty said. “Where would you like to start?”

Joan didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.


End file.
